by JoAnn Ross
“I just had the strangest encounter,” she said. “Do you know an older woman with orange hair?”
He looked up from sorting the mail. “Sounds like Mildred Landis. Was she tipsy?”
“I think she’d been drinking.”
Jeb nodded. “That’s Mildred, all right. I hope she didn’t bother you.”
“No.” She thought about telling him what the woman had said about Roxanne, then decided the negative accusation was probably just a case of small-town envy. “She was just looking for her cat.”
“Poor Cicero. He manages to escape every so often, but she always tracks him down. Makes you understand why old Irving Landis didn’t leave a forwarding address when he skipped town.”
“Landis. Is she—”
“Dorothy’s mamma,” Jeb revealed. “And believe me, between working all day with Roxanne, and having to go home to Mildred, I don’t envy the lady’s life even a little bit.”
Chelsea murmured an agreement. And tried to put the disagreeable woman out of her mind. But as she tried to work on her novel, Mildred’s accusation kept going around and around in her thoughts, like a leaf in a whirlpool.
Mildred Landis was obviously an alcoholic. And, like so many people with drinking problems, she appeared to have a very large chip on her shoulder.
But, Chelsea reminded herself as she turned off the light and tried to go to sleep, just because she was a bitter, resentful drunk didn’t mean that she wasn’t right about Roxanne.
Damn. George cursed as the room was thrown into darkness. He’d installed the hidden cameras in the bedroom while the owner had gone into Savannah yesterday. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to see a fucking thing, since the girl dressed and undressed in the bathroom like some kinda damn nun. He knew he should have installed some cameras in there while he’d been at it, but Townely had come home early and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to get caught. That would have ended up gettin’ him a one-way ticket back to the pen.
He might not be a video expert like that New York bimbo who was makin’ the film about Cora Mae, George allowed, thinking of all the fancy equipment she was lugging around all the time. But during a year stint in the country jail for drunk driving, he’d met a guy who did surveillance work for the mob who’d taught him enough about cameras to go into business for himself.
At first the women playing the starring role in his low-budget porno flicks had been willing participants. But unfortunately, the kind of cunts who’d get off on being filmed having sex were lousy actresses. It had been then George had come up with the idea of hiding the cameras in the closet.
The tapes had been good. At least better than when the bimbos kept playing to the camera lens like they thought they were Marilyn Chambers. But porno films featuring consenting adults fuckin’ were a dime a dozen these days. It seemed every Tom, Dick and Mary with a video camera was selling their home movies.
It was then George had come up with the great idea to add a twist to the plot.
Memories of the women who’d unknowingly starred in the rape and bondage videos made him stone hard. Wrapping his fingers around his penis, he watched the writer sleep. Her tossing and turning caused her to kick off the sheet and made the red silk nightshirt hitch high up on her hip. When her hand unconsciously slipped between her legs, his throbbing sex convulsed feverishly.
It was obvious the little gal needed a real man. And hot damn, he had just the one in mind.
The anticipation was all it took to make him come.
After a restless night spent dreaming of Cash, Chelsea woke up tired and cranky. But as she stood under the shower, willing the water to wake her up, her mind drifted back to that strange encounter with Mildred Landis in the garden. Even as Chelsea reminded herself that her job was to tell Roxanne’s story—in Roxanne’s words—the woman’s assertions had piqued her natural curiosity. So much so, that while Roxanne was taking her daily swim, Chelsea decided to seek out Jo.
The filmmaker was in her room, her attention glued to a portable television.
“I hope I’m not disturbing your work,” Chelsea said.
“Of course not.” Jo waved her into the room. “I was just watching the tape of yesterday’s visit to Belle Terre.
Chelsea looked at the screen just in time to catch a close-up of the laborer who’d been leering at her.
“God, that guy is creepy,” Jo muttered, unknowingly echoing Chelsea’s thoughts. “I’ll definitely have to edit him out.” She pointed the remote control toward the television, darkening the screen. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering how much research you did on Roxanne before you arrived here in Raintree to begin taping.”
“I located some early interviews. And her agent gave me some tapes of television appearances.”
“But nothing else? Nothing about her years before she became famous?”
“Since there was no reason for her to be interviewed before she was famous, all I know about her early years is what she’s told me,” Jo said. “And most of that is already public knowledge.”
“The story about her parents dying in that car crash in Switzerland? And her being raised by doting servants in some rural alpine village until she returned to the States to go to college?”
“That’s about it.”
“Didn’t you think it was strange? That none of her parents’ family took her in?”
“I thought it was a little unusual at first,” Jo allowed. “But Roxanne explained that the Swiss woman had been her nurse for years. And her husband was their chauffeur. Apparently her parents’ will provided for them to have a comfortable living so long as they continued to care for her. Which was a pretty good deal.”
“It might have been a good deal for the servants,” Chelsea argued with a frown. All morning she’d been thinking of what Jeb had told her about southerners’ strong feelings concerning their roots. And families. “But Roxanne is a southerner. And I’ve gotten the impression that down here south of the Mason-Dixon line, family takes care of family.
“A little girl is orphaned and no one comes forward to claim her. Not even some maiden aunt she never knew she had. Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
“Odd, perhaps,” Jo admitted. “But not impossible.”
“So, you’re just going to buy the story—hook, line and sinker? You’re not going to investigate her past?”
Jo’s normally perky expression turned puzzled. “I’m not taping “60 Minutes,” Chelsea. I’m merely filming a documentary on Roxanne’s inimitable style. On how she achieved success and why millions of women strive to emulate her.”
“Even if she’s a fraud?”
“Are you implying she lied about her past?”
“Not lying,” Chelsea hedged. “Perhaps embellishing is a better word.”
“Everyone embellishes.” Jo shrugged. “We’re talking about a woman who teaches other women how to gild pine cones,” she stated matter-of-factly. “It’s not as if Roxanne is running for president. If she does have some skeletons rattling around in her past, I suppose it’s her right to keep the closet door shut.”
“There you are!” Roxanne’s appearance in the open door forestalled Chelsea from answering. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you girls.” Her patented smile did not reach her eyes, making Chelsea wonder just how long she’d been standing there. And what, if anything, she’d overheard. “I’m ready for my interview.”
Chelsea knew that her father would not have let the matter drop. Dylan Cassidy would have locked onto the story like a pit bull on a particularly juicy bone and not let go.
But as she went back downstairs with Jo and Roxanne, Chelsea reminded herself that she’d gone out of her way not to fall into the trap of trying to follow in her father’s too large footsteps. She was inclined to agree with Jo. If it wasn’t for that strange anonymous note she’d received her first night in Raintree. And Mildred Landis’s admittedly unreliable accusation.
Chapter Sixteen
&n
bsp; The rest of the week continued in the same pattern, with Chelsea following Roxanne from her house to Belle Terre, back to the house, trying to fit in interviews whenever possible.
“Of course I realize I have critics,” Roxanne told Chelsea late Friday afternoon. The fabric swatches and wallpaper samples Dorothy had spent the day acquiring from various Savannah wholesalers covered the conference table. “But I don’t pay any attention to them.”
“Aren’t you at least hurt—or irritated—by what they say about you?” Chelsea asked carefully. Although she hadn’t seen any indication of Roxanne’s temper, she continued to remain on guard.
“Of course not.” Roxanne turned toward Jo, who was busy adjusting the lighting at the other side of the room.
“Is your camera on, Jo, dear?” Roxanne asked.
“Of course, Roxanne.”
When wasn’t it on? Chelsea wondered. The documentary filmmaker, who always seemed to be hovering somewhere nearby, had already taped enough footage to rival the length of Gone With the Wind.
“Good.” Roxanne nodded, satisfied. “Because I want to make certain this gets into our little film.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked directly at the lens. “My critics don’t understand the power of dreams. Fortunately, my readers do.
“Those people who have described me as the hostess from hell, or the Diva of Domesticity, are those same people who’ve bought into the myth that modern 90s women aren’t interested in beauty or comfort.”
She leaned forward in her chair. “I’ll be the first to admit that life is far more complex for women today. I certainly don’t spend my days lounging around on a satin chaise, eating Godiva truffles and drinking Dom Pérignon. I work hard.
“But I’m not alone. I often think about the woman who spends all day on her feet, ringing up people’s groceries, who goes home to a family who doesn’t care that her arches are aching and her head is splitting. They’re hungry. They want dinner.
“The nurse who’s running an emergency room, juggling child care and taking care of her aged parents puts in more hours in a day than the average Fortune 500 company CEO. And she’s still expected to help with homework.
“All over America, women are working harder and achieving less satisfaction. Free time has almost disappeared from their lexicon.”
“Isn’t that one of the issues your critics raise?” Chelsea interjected carefully. “That the nurse who’s trying to cook hamburgers while coaching her kid for the upcoming spelling bee and trying to find someone to take her mother a hot meal every day doesn’t have time to bake homemade Christmas cookies. Let alone wrap them in gold leaf.”
“Lord, I am beginning to wish I’d never suggested that gold leaf,” Roxanne flared. Out of the corner of her eye Chelsea viewed Jo preparing to stop filming. But Roxanne managed, with a visible effort, to compose herself.
“Of course I don’t expect everyone to follow my suggestions exactly. That particular project was designed to force my publishers to use all color photos.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t, dear,” Roxanne said patiently. “Which is why I’m going to explain it to you. When I first came up with the concept of marketing my style suggestions in coffee table book form, my publishers—who were incredibly shortsighted number crunchers, by the way—could not believe that modern, career-oriented women cared about creating a nice environment.
“Which, of course, is ridiculous, because years ago, women were taught to create a peaceful, appealing home for their husbands to escape to after a long hard day at the office. My question is, why shouldn’t women deserve the same retreatlike atmosphere when they return home?”
“Perhaps they deserve it,” Chelsea agreed. “But there are a lot of women out there who’d tell you that what they need is a wife to take care of all those niceties they don’t have time for.”
“You have to set the table,” Roxanne argued. “Why not use attractive china and cutlery? And how long does it take to pick up a bouquet of daisies at the supermarket on the way home, and put them in a nice little depression glass tumbler in the center of the table?”
“But you go beyond that.”
“Well, of course. If I didn’t, I would have been a one-book author.” She gave Chelsea a placid, self-satisfied smile. “My fifteen books have sold millions of copies, and every single one is still in print. Southern Comforts magazine sells nearly two million copies each issue, and the advertising revenues are up ninety-four percent from when the magazine launched last year.
“My arrangement with Mega-Mart stores ensures that all those middle-class working women who can’t afford sterling, or who weren’t fortunate to inherit it, are still able to set a lovely table with Roxanne Scarbrough’s signature flatware.
“And for less money than it costs to take a family of five to the movies, they can also buy a tablecloth and matching napkins for those special Sunday afternoon dinners at home. The designed to mix-and-match stoneware is also quite affordable.”
She crossed her legs and sat back in the chair again. “There will always be those provincial New Yorkers who dress as if they’re going to a funeral every day of their lives, who live in their miserable little rabbit warrens in filthy canyons where the sun never shines, who somehow feel superior because they live in Manhattan.
“And each morning, they trudge their way through the filthy streets, stepping over those poor unfortunate homeless people who they no longer even see, to ride the subway to some miserable job working on a newspaper or magazine, where they attempt to eke out some personal satisfaction by trashing others who choose not to buy into the eastern seaboard mentality.
“There is nothing I can do to make these people appreciate my efforts. Although I must say, that if they incorporated just a little bit of the Roxanne Scarbrough style into their lives, they’d undoubtedly feel cheerier. But of course, that could result in their losing their jobs. Jobs that require them to look down their noses at anything they can’t understand.”
“You make it sound so depressing,” Chelsea murmured, thinking that although her own life in Manhattan was not so unrelentingly bleak, Roxanne had hit pretty close to home.
“It is. And that’s exactly my point. Women don’t have to live such bleak existences. Not if they’d listen to me. And let me help them.”
“Surely you don’t believe that all it takes for a woman to achieve domestic bliss is imagination and a glue gun?”
Roxanne surprised her by laughing at that. “That’s precisely what I’m saying. You’ll see, Chelsea,” she said. “We’ll make a southern belle out of you yet.”
That idea was so preposterous, Chelsea laughed.
But later that night, as she soaked in the special herbal bath salts Roxanne had insisted she take back to the hotel with her, and ate her way through the little gilt-wrapped box of white chocolate brownies that had also been pressed upon her as she’d left the house for the day, she had to admit there was something to be said for pampering.
It was nearly midnight. After going over the plans for hours, Cash decided it was time to call it a day.
“I think we’ve done about all we can for tonight, Roxanne,” he said, rolling up the set of working drawings.
“Do you have to leave? We haven’t finished with the kitchen cabinets.”
That was true. They had, however, managed to add a pantry, eliminate the narrow hallway, as he’d suggested doing in the first place, and added a mudroom that prevented having to walk directly into the expanded kitchen from outdoors. Personally, Cash didn’t feel that was such a bad night’s work.
“I think I’ve got the idea of the new changes you want,” he assured her. “It won’t take that long to finish the specs.”
“Fine. You can show them to me tomorrow evening.” She pulled a long slender cigarette from the gold mesh case on the table between them. Cash leaned forward to light it for her.
Roxanne inhaled. “Vernon Gibbons is jetting in from Nashvill
e for an afternoon meeting and I’ve invited him to dinner,” she said on a blue cloud of smoke. “Since his store will be carrying knockoffs of many of the furnishings and accessories, naturally he’s interested in our progress.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass on dinner.”
“Oh?” Her perfectly shaped brow arched. Her red lips drew into a tight line as she inhaled more deeply on the cigarette.
“I’m going to New York to check out a house on Long Island that’s being demolished. The millwork is from the same time period as Belle Terre. I thought I might be able to pick up some interior doors. And, if we’re lucky, get enough crown molding to replace what’s rotted in the library and dining room.”
“Oh.” Appeased, she relaxed her expression. She put the cigarette out in an ashtray, stood up with a lazy grace, then, as if tired from a long day of work, began rubbing at the small of her back. Cash suspected the gesture, which caused her full breasts to press against her royal blue silk blouse, was done for his benefit.
“The house used to be owned by a Vanderbilt,” he said. “Wish me luck, I’m hoping for wonderful things.”
“So am I.” Before he could perceive her intentions, she twined her arms around his neck and lifted her lips to his.
Her mouth was lush and wet. As she pressed her voluptuous body against him, her scent, dark and sexy, surrounded him. When her tongue trailed a circle of sparks around his mouth, Cash had no doubt that this was a game Roxanne played often. And well.
“Roxanne.” After removing her arms from around his neck, he put his hands on her waist and broke the contact of their bodies. “You’re an incredibly sexy woman—”
“And you’re an incredibly sexy man.” She smiled and pressed a pampered hand against his chest. Her nails gleamed like rubies beneath the sparkling glitter of the chandelier.
“And it’s not that I don’t find you appealing. Hell, any man would—”
“Why do I hear a but in there?” Her eyes turned as cool as frost.
“I don’t believe in mixing work and pleasure.”